As I had learned from sailing on the catamaran, the Tappan Zee Bridge acts as a great disrupter of wind, tide, and current, sometimes focusing the natural elements, at other times causing them to clock and swirl around at varying speeds. I had intended to lower myself to the appropriate height, then simply slip out of the bosun's chair as the ship passed under me. I'd lowered myself no more than fifteen feet when I realized it wasn't going to be all that easy, and that what I was about was very dangerous business indeed. Gusts of wind lashed raindrops that felt as big as marbles across my face, while at the same time swinging me back and forth and spinning me around, first in one direction and then another, like some battered pendulum. If I was not careful-or even if I was careful-there was a good chance I was going to smash into one of the loading cranes or other equipment on deck, or even miss the deck altogether and end up in the water. With no life jacket, my chances for survival next to a moving tanker in the foaming, roiled river below were not good, to say the least.
I was hanging onto my control rope with both hands as the wind spun me around and swept me back and forth in great arcs across the central span of the bridge. With no way to wipe the water from my eyes, or shield them with a hand, I was effectively flying blind. I judged that I had descended approximately half the distance to the water. I lowered myself some more, arching my back and trying to shield my face in my left armpit at the same time as I tried to look down, behind, all around, on the watch for anything that might be moving.
My little impromptu journey had temporarily cured my headache, and it had also dampened, as it were, my rage; sheer terror is a most powerful distraction from whatever else it is that's ailing you.
The wind continued to spin me around and swing me. I squinted against the rain, looked down between my legs, and when I saw a yellow glow below me that had to be one of the ship's running lights, I knew I had seriously misjudged my position, and distance left to go; I was at least forty feet above the great foredeck, which was rapidly passing beneath me, and there was a good chance now I would smash into a crane or the tall superstructure at the stern end containing the wheelhouse-that is, if I didn't miss the tanker altogether and have the ship chug merrily along on its way without me. That could leave me in a most unpleasant situation, since I doubted I had the strength and stamina to pull myself back up to the bridge. There was no time left to gauge wind, distance, or anything else. I loosened my grip on the control rope and felt the nylon filament burn my palms as I plummeted in what I hoped was a controlled drop calculated to land me on the deck at a velocity just slightly short of that which would break my back or neck.
I landed hard, the wind and my momentum driving me due north on the foredeck of the tanker, which was heading due south. I immediately released the control rope as I was thrown forward, rolling like a lumpy bowling ball down the length of the foredeck. There had been no time to get my legs out of the loops of the improvised bosun's chair, and after my third bounce and roll I was hopelessly entangled in the line. I had not tied a knot at the end of the rope, and with luck the line would simply pass freely through the pulley up on the bridge railing, drop into the water, and trail behind the tanker. Then again, there were all manner of sharp metal angles on the bridge and construction equipment above to snag a flailing rope, or a trailing rope might be sucked down and become entangled in the ship's great props. If either of these unfortunate events occurred, I would either be unceremoniously dragged off the tanker to drown or pulled along the deck until I got caught in some equipment or rigging, and I would end up a bloody skin bag full of broken bones and crushed organs long before the rope broke.
These were the happy thoughts that flashed through my mind as I caromed off something that was rounded and hard, bounced and rolled some more, and finally banged to a stop against a wooden pallet loaded with diesel-oil drums. Impossibly entangled from head to toe in the rope, there was nothing I could do but wince and wait for a tug on the rope that would signal the beginning of a second, brief and ignominious journey. But the tug didn't come. The line had passed through the pulley and was-for the moment, at least-trailing freely alongside of or behind the tanker.
Suddenly two oilskin-clad crewmen loomed out of the darkness and bent down over me. They looked at each other, then began to speak rapidly in Spanish. I wriggled a little bit, found that despite the fact that I felt like one great bruise, there didn't seem to be anything broken. I wriggled harder, trying to free myself, but finally gave up. I looked up at the two crewmen, grinned. "So?" I said. "What's the problem? Take me to your leader."
Chapter Eleven
I couldn't tell if they were amused, because I couldn't even be certain they understood me, but it did seem certain that they considered the unauthorized presence of a hog-tied dwarf on board their vessel a sufficient reason to seek the counsel of higher authority. They proceeded to untangle the line from around me-no easy proposition, and done none too gently-and then perfunctorily grabbed me under the armpits and hauled me to my feet. Then, keeping a tight grip on my arms, they hustled me around the oil drums, across a section of the foredeck, then down a sloping companionway into what appeared to be the crew's quarters of the ship, which looked like an outtake from a cheap submarine movie and smelled of engine oil and cooking grease.
As I was half marched, half dragged along I became aware of a new problem, one that not only was causing considerable discomfort but also posed a real danger. Hypothermia. It was early August; the night was quite warm, despite the wind and rain. However, I'd been walking, waiting, dropping, swinging, bouncing, and rolling in that wind and rain for nigh unto two hours, and my body had decided to register a protest; it was saying that I had been knocked seriously unconscious earlier in the day and that I was supposed to be resting; it was saying that if I was so stupid as to flagrantly ignore the doctors' orders, then it was going to take matters into its own hands, as it were, and shut me down until such time as I got more sense into my head-or died, whichever came first. My body was going to lower its core temperature and see how I liked them apples. I was suddenly very cold and began to shiver uncontrollably. I didn't know the Spanish word for towel, but I asked for one anyway. Due to the language barrier or indifference, or both, I didn't even get a response, much less a towel. We just kept marching along.
We marched down one long, narrow corridor, then turned right and marched down another one, which ended at a scarred wooden door with a slatted portal. The man on my right, who had pushed back his hood and whom I now recognized as the sallow-faced crewman I had seen at the railing earlier in the day, used his free hand to knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door, and I was pushed through it.
The captain's cabin was spacious, somewhat baroque with its walls of dark oak, matching rolltop desk, and large chart table set up in the middle of the floor. To my immediate left was a bunk bed bolted to the wall. Indeed, with its four quaint, barred portholes to provide a scenic view, the cabin would have seemed to me a most pleasant floating studio apartment, were it not for the smelclass="underline" a mixture of disgusting odors that served to amplify my already screaming headache into something even louder, and made me nauseous. Underlying the stink of rotting food, an unwashed body, and spilled liquor was the even more acrid odor of vomit. This was no seagoing pied-a-terre but a sickroom; the man swaying unsteadily in his chair at the chart table, which was littered with half-empty liquor bottles, unwashed dishes, and greasy papers, was obviously sick, and had been for a long time. He wasn't likely to get any better as long as Carver Shipping, incredibly, kept him on the payroll and afloat in what had become for him nothing more than a steel tomb.